While Away
by Aussiegirl41
Summary: Will Charlie and Elsie ever get over their jitters to consummate their marriage?
1. Chapter 1

**I started to write a couple of fics for Cami for her birthday. The lack of real plot in either of them meant that I've dilly dallied around with both. (Who knew a plot was essential?) This seems to be the one that I've almost finished first. But I haven't. No, this is just the first chapter. Hopefully I will finish the second one soon.**

Their conversation dried up completely just before supper. Avoiding the uncomfortable silence, she ate, but if asked later, she wouldn't have a clue as to what.

They lingered unnecessarily in the cramped booth of the pub, both of them twirling a seemingly bottomless glass of sherry each, until good manners forced them to leave, thus allowing the tired landlord to lock up for the night.

Their allocated room upstairs was clean but plain. They hung their coats in an unvarnished cupboard decorated with scuff marks. Their hats and Elsie's bag were placed upon a squat dresser. Elsie had carefully secreted her smalls and a couple of other personal items into its drawers when Charles had gone in search of a pot of tea for them both after arriving. And there was, of course, a bed.

She was equally thrilled and terrified by that last piece of furniture.

"What do you think of Scarborough?" Charles had asked a few weeks ago. "I don't think our savings will stretch to the Grand Hotel but I'm sure we could find some accommodation suitable. I'd like to visit the castle, and I thought you'd like to see Anne Bronte's grave."

"It's quite a bit away," Elsie had fretted at the time.

In the end, they did settle upon visiting the seaside town for their few days off after the wedding, not only for its many attractions, but because it also offered them a touch of anonymity.

They had never imagined their new relationship would be as talked about as much as it was. Villagers they'd known for years suddenly started leering, and some even added snide remarks along with lewdly knowing winks.

Elsie would have liked to have been a fly on the wall when Charles had 'set Reverend Travis straight', an incident that finally forced them to agree they should squander some of their savings and venture further than merely Ripon or Thirsk. Apparently Travis, of all people, had implied Elsie might have been hiding out in the butler's pantry for years acting inappropriately.

This was nowhere near the truth.

They'd kissed. Once. This morning. During the ceremony, at the time it was expected by the gathered witnesses. And it had merely been the smallest peck which Charles had quickly dropped to the side of her mouth.

Before today they'd been content to simply hold hands. Really, at times, holding hands had been quite scandalous. Overall it was simply lovely to think there was someone in the world she wanted to hold onto. And someone who wanted to hold onto her.

But now... Her eyes drifted again to that third piece of furniture.

She had no idea as to what Charles expected. He loved her, she thought this was true even though he'd never uttered the actual words, but she suspected he might be willing to chose nobility over lust.

As usual, she didn't think she would have such self control. She was unnervingly eager to learn more about how their bodies might fit together.

Luckily Charles had his back to her as she speculated and she needn't explain the blush she could feel heating her cheeks. He was removing his suit coat and placing it inside the cupboard alongside their other clothes. Certainly he would think she was slightly batty if she told him the movement of his hands was quite mesmerising as he automatically smoothed the coat's material and hung it with long practised precision.

When he turned she was struck again by how lovely he looked wearing grey. She was so accustomed to seeing him in black and white. The flower pinned beside his pocket watch on his waistcoat softened his look, and her heart, even more.

They'd both agreed to remove the flower from his morning suit after they'd left the church. They'd no desire to receive any extra attention as they boarded the train or dined in the pub. She had thought he'd discarded it completely, but it seemed he'd just hidden it from view.

As she reached out to finger the surprisingly still perfect white petals, he made a noise at the back of his throat. Perhaps it was the sound of contentment, perhaps relief, but she knew for sure it wasn't displeasure so she allowed her palm to slip a little lower until she could feel his erratically beating heart.

"Charles..." she murmured, unsure.

He smiled. One she returned readily. Her new husband might be an unknown mystery, but she knew Charles Carson, her counterpart, well. He was solid, dependable, protective, chivalrous. And as soft as they come under all his bluster.

She suddenly felt foolish that they'd allowed anxiety build between them all evening.

She lifted herself onto her tiptoes and _she_ kissed _him_ for the first time. Just a small kiss again, to shake them out of their nervousness.

She was about to lower herself back to her flat feet when his head tilted and he once again made contact with her mouth. This second kiss of his was no peck or mere graze across her lips. This time he was kissing her as she'd seen men kiss their leading ladies on the screen. She closed her eyes, melting just like those heroines were so often obliged to do.

His lips were surprisingly soft, even though they seemed to be relentlessly demanding a response. She fisted his waistcoat to stop herself from falling in a heap at his feet but otherwise stayed passive in his arms, immersing herself happily in a suffusion of sensations which included a feverish warmth spreading across her skin and a distinct ache in the pit of her stomach.

All too soon he pulled away, eliciting from her a soft whimper.

"Elsie?"

She opened her eyes and searched his face as to what question he had posed merely with her name. Even with her extremely limited experience she could see his expression was in no way amourous. His eyebrows were drawn together and a frown marred his features. Worry? Guilt?

Then, it dawned on her. Her stillness wasn't apparently the done thing. He must have interpreted it as rejection.

How could she reassure him she'd simply been relaxed, and she'd definitely been thoroughly enjoying the unchaste awareness his kiss had evoked?

There was only one way.

Still clutching his waistcoat she tugged him closer, gesturing with her eyes that he should lower his head once more. A thrill of exhilaration ran down her spine when he readily yielded to her gentle command and this time, for the first time, they were kissing each other.

Instinct told her to open her mouth wider, and when she felt a tentative flick in her mouth she boldly twisted hers until their tongues were essentially laced together.

This kiss went on and on, seemingly making up for years of pent up suppression.

When their noses bumped accidentally and uncomfortably, they broke contact.

His arms, which had crept around her as they kissed, still encircled her and she made no attempt to move away. His hard male body was both unnervingly different and comfortably familiar at the same time. His usual scent of silver polish was missing; the pub's smoky air had thankfully not clung to his clothes or skin. She could smell the alcohol they'd consumed though. His ragged breaths matched hers.

"You taste of sherry," she murmured lightheartedly, hoping to break the tension that had once again developed between them.

His only response was a peaceful sigh. He never made any move to release her from his embrace. She made the most of his calm, and burrowed herself into his chest. She liked how small he made her seem.

The mood was only broken when the noise of shattering glass drifted up from the laneway behind the pub.

"At least I don't feel obliged to go out and investigate whatever that was as I would in Yorkshire," Charlie said jokingly, lightly rubbing the stubble which was already starting to shadow his chin across her forehead. She chortled softly, at both his statement and the growth's scruffy texture.

Then, she leant back and dared reach out to stroke the day's worth of bristles with the tips of her fingers. Could it be true she'd never touched him in this way before?

"Yes." The word vibrated through her hand and arm. It was said in the same commanding tone he often utilised when giving orders at Downton. He palmed his face and grimaced before easing her out of his arms. "We should partake in our usual bedtime preparations."

She nodded in amicable agreement and soon was scurrying off down the hall to the bathroom after he suggested, 'ladies first'.

They would need to share should there be other guests on the floor. Fortunately however, she found the room vacant.

There was no mirror, so she could only wonder about her colour as she splashed some water onto her hot cheeks. Or if her lips were as swollen as she thought they still must be as she ran her tongue across them. Oddly, these physical reminders of the kisses she'd just shared with Charlie only made her eager to continue.

She rinsed her mouth, even though it seemed too late for such considerations, and used the toilet before changing into a pretty yellow nightdress she'd bought especially for the occasion. She'd worn a corset during the ceremony, but had removed it when she'd swapped from her wedding dress and into her going-away outfit. It had been Beryl's idea to forego the torturous underwear item.

"You'll not have a young maid to help you out of it in Scarborough," she'd warned.

Elsie had swallowed down her first thought; that Charles could be the one to untie the garment instead. Her friend's mind was obviously not as coarse as hers.

She wondered about how the unusually exuberant hairdo was keeping up. There had been a mirror running along the entire wall of the pub. When she'd caught her own reflection, she hadn't immediately recognised herself. Her eyes had looked wider; her cheekbones sharper; her mouth fuller. Ridiculous to think that could be true only from the alteration of her hair style.

She reached up to feel the curls, finding them damp from the bathroom's humid air. They were probably kinking all over the place, she fretted, rearranging some of the pins that had kept the do in place.

She should have known her attractiveness would be short-lived.

"There really is no need for false first impressions on your wedding night," she scolded aloud.

Or was there, a brash voice in her head asked.

She'd felt beautiful today. That was no false first impression; no illusion. It was simply how she'd felt as she married Charles, how he made her feel. His expression when he'd turned to watch her walk down the aisle had made all the effort she'd gone to with her look worth it. She would like to stay beautiful for him for a few more hours.

Still, she wet a flannel and dabbed away the rouge Lady Grantham had insisted she apply earlier. She next used the cloth under her arms and then, she lifted the skirt of the nightdress and cleaned around her belly and chest. Goosepimples spread across her skin as she held each of her breasts in turn to concentrate on the clammy skin just below them. It was somewhere she washed habitually each night but tonight she was sure the weight of her breasts had increased. Her nipples rubbed against the nightdress's cotton material and tightened uncomfortably.

She bit down on her bottom lip and moved to wash between her legs. This perfunctory task made her hand shake. Her thoughts had strayed to this part of her anatomy too many times of late. More in these last few months than ever in her life, if she was honest.

Her muscles there clenched and a sharp pain extended through to her lower abdomen and upper thighs.

She sat, balancing on the edge of the bathroom tub. It was only after a few steadying breaths that she concluded the pain was one of pleasure and anticipation. She was aroused.

She wiped her private parts again and then studied the cloth clinically. There was no blood, she had stopped having her time a year or so ago, but it was as stickily wet as she sometimes had been the days before she menstruated. Her mood was also as heightened as she sometimes tended to be during those days of her cycle.

Before she could sort all her reactions into some sort of order, a light knock came to the door, making her jump guiltily.

"Are you alright, Mrs Carson?"

She quickly answered in the affirmative, flushing with shame as well as wonder at the way he said her name, _Mrs Carson_. Dragging on her thick ribbed gown, she inched open the bathroom door and peeked out.

Charlie hovered, his pyjamas and a towel held out in front of his body awkwardly. "I'm sorry. Are you finished? I can wait if…"

"No, no," she murmured, holding the door open with her back, allowing him to enter the room. He squeezed through the space she made, but still their bodies touched. She gripped the door handle, thinking her heart's beat must be audible.

"I'll…" She gestured back down the hall to the general direction of their room, pulling the lapels of her gown together tightly, disconcerted at how quickly both their moods had turned anxious once more.

"I… I won't be long," he said.

"No, no. No rush."

After scampering back to their room, she took the opportunity of Charles's absence to shrug off the gown and slip under the bed covers. The sheets felt cool and crisp, and she mentally rated the accommodation up a level on this basis. Old habits would die hard.

Her stuttering 'no rush' was hardly an encouraging turn of phrase, but Charlie would need to return to the room eventually and join her. Whatever else happened tonight, she was going to share a bed with Charlie at the very least.

Yes, being alone was one habit she wasn't only about to break, but shatter into a million shards.

She hadn't shared a bed since she was 15. The year her parents had passed away within months of each other, she had gone into service, and Becky had been placed into an asylum. It had been winter, and Elsie would never forget the way the cold had burnt straight through to her bones without her sister's warmth beside her. She'd not complained at this small hardship later, when she'd learnt the truth of what happened in the supposed hospital.

Though the current weather pattern of warmer days had thankfully continued for today's nuptials, night time was still accompanied with a drop in temperature.

The idea of Charlie stretched out behind her, pressing close to prevent a chill, was extremely appealing. Because of her birthplace, people always imagined she was much more accustomed to coping with the cold than she was in reality.

Their cottage was not yet completely furnished, but there was a bed. A nice double one with pretty white linen and a blue crocheted blanket folded on its base. Elsie had even been rather indulgent and bought six feather pillows for it as well. She'd done it after thinking of the time she'd been into Charlie's bedroom in Downton, the awful year they'd been infected with the Spanish flu. He had a liking for more than one pillow on his bed, she'd noticed.

Charlie had seen what she'd done to the bed, but had not made any comment with regards her decoration. Instead he had merely stood near the threshold of the bedroom and nodded, she'd thought approvingly. As neither of them had suggested a bed be bought for the other bedroom, she guessed they'd be sharing. Separate beds for married couples was something only the rich could afford or want.

Childishly, she closed her eyes when the door opened and shut, signalling Charlie's return from the bathroom. She held her breath, waiting for the mattress to dip with his weight.

When it never happened, she forced herself to open her eyes. Charlie had obviously turned off the light as the room was in darkness, but she could see the outline of his lofty figure at the side of the bed.

"Charlie?"

She blinked furiously to adjust her eyes until she could just make out his features. From his demeanour, she didn't think he was particularly eager to consummate their marriage at this time. He stood stiffly by the side of the bed, wringing his hands together.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hu-"

Charlie looked mortified by his gaffe. She had been expecting this slip of the tongue at some stage. She wasn't going to get angry with him over it. She intended to tell him: "I don't-"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted her to apologise again. "But you should know I'm a complete fraud. I'm deeply ashamed I haven't confessed to you before now. I should have, and now it's too late, and…"

"Charlie?" she prompted when he failed to finish his sentence. She really was thoroughly confused as to what he was trying to tell her.

Her vision was now fully adjusted. She shivered with reaction at how slumped he stood, with his head bowed. Not the usual proud stance of Charles Carson.

"I'm not the man you believe me to be," he finally announced, shocking her into silence.

End of Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

**Yes, I finally had time to finish this chapter. Hopefully the large word count will make up for the wait! It's also a little more mature than the first one. :)**

Elsie used the back of her hand to shield her eyes from the glare reflecting up from South Bay. The compensation of this mild discomfort was the stunning blue palette shimmering across the water's surface. From the lightest of azures to the deepest of indigos, each shade altered slightly as a smattering of clouds passed overhead.

The tide was slowly coming in. Loath to wade in any deeper alone, she instead waited for the quiet waves to reach her.

Memories of that precious time she did have someone by her side as she paddled at the seaside washed over her along with the seaspray sprinkling in the breeze.

Before then, she and Charlie had always spent time apart during the London Season.

The butler was required to travel with the family to London; the housekeeper was not. During the summer of '23, this routine was shattered.

"It's not to say Mrs Bute is incompetent, Mrs Hughes, but it is rather pleasant to have someone of your calibre here for the duration," Charlie had said when she'd arrived at Grantham House.

"Oh, Mr Carson, you should save your excitement. I know nothing of London. I might turn into more of a hinderance than a help," she declared frankly.

"Nonsense, Mrs Hughes."

She stepped closer, not knowing he was going to adjust his stance at the same time, meaning their bodies ended up much closer than she had originally intended. When she felt his breath warm on her cheek she knew she should again shift to put more of a distance between them - but she didn't.

She would stay awake that night wondering what he had thought of her behaviour at that precise moment, but in the end their nearness had seemed fitting, given what she was trying to convey. "Familiarity breeds contempt," she warned quietly.

His look turned hesitant when he caught her drift. They had always had a break from each other's company. With her travelling to London along with the family, they had entered new territory in more ways than merely location.

Shockingly, it turned out to be Charles who would exacerbate their predicament.

At the end of her first hectic week, she came across her two oldest friends, Mr Carson and Mrs Patmore, plotting that she should get out and about and see the city. Seeing as Beryl was spending more and more time taking young Daisy under her wing, they'd settled on Mr Carson as Elsie's guide.

Their outings were typical of Charlie, of course. Nothing so grand as the ones he would later suggest for the entire staff's day trip, but ones which included a visit to a haberdashery, a stroll through a public garden so he could point out how much better the Downton roses were tended, and mapping out the best route to the post office.

Though most people would call their destinations dull, it was the way they walked, side by side, shoulders occasionally bumping, to reach them that made Elsie both confused and elated.

The crowded streets of London played their part. Charlie had to take her arm to save her from being jostled by other pedestrians, or to help her cross to the opposite pavement seeing she was not accustomed to such a high number of passing autos. And Mr Carson always declared the air was so polluted from those motorcars that they should stop and share a tray at one of the many tea houses scattered throughout the city.

It was in the clear air of Brighton Beach, however, that brought her to the heady conclusion that she was in love with Charlie Carson. Not platonically, as she had always supposed for many years, but romantically.

Cheering and clapping roused her from her daydreaming. With her feet firmly buried in the sand, she swivelled her body around to investigate. A Punch and Judy show had just started on the edge of the promenade. A crowd of children was gathered crosslegged at the base of a red and white curtained booth.

The marionettes were still a happy couple. Elsie turned away, focusing her attention on the water view once again, before they come to blows.

Perhaps she should have tried knocking some sense into Charles a few nights ago.

He'd hovered beside the bed, and made some ridiculous confession regarding his worth. Elsie had obviously been on edge herself because this slight falter on his part had caused her temper to boil over immediately.

"Charles Carson, whatever are you thinking?" she had asked before she flung back the bedclothes and marched over to pull on the string near the door, lighting up the room once more.

"Just who do you take me for?" she snapped, knowing her accent had sharply thickened to match her irritation. "I'm not the man I'd have you believe," she repeated his nonsensical words mockingly. "I've known you for nearly twenty years. You can't tell me what type of man I think you are, or tell me what I believe you to be."

He exhaled deeply. "I made you believe I was a man of the world, but the truth is I've never… Known a woman..."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. His confession was hardly surprising. He wasn't the type to take advantage of women in that way, and she already knew the sad ending to his and Alice's affair.

Whatever he thought, however, he must have more experience than she did. Men were not treated any differently should they succumb to temptation, but women! She would not have been employed as a housekeeper should she have done anything so disgraceful. And considering her circumstances, gainful employment had been a priority.

"I've never even kissed a man before today," she scoffed.

His mouth thinned with disapproval. "I should think not!"

She laughed, her anger abating almost as quickly as it had flared. She'd become accustomed to his perceived differences between men and women, and the silly expectations he had of the fairer sex. It was so typical that he should want her to be untouched, but be embarrassed by being labelled as such himself.

"Your reputation was impeccable until I asked for your hand, at least," he lamented.

"I'm sure everyone will move on to talking about something else soon enough," she reassured him. Better to be talking about the extent of an esteemed butler and his corresponding housekeeper's intimacy than Marigold's parentage or unsolved murders of men who had once visited Downton, she reckoned.

"I think it was your good reputation and not mine that prevented any suggestion of impropriety between us prior to the announcement of our engagement," she insisted.

It was the only explanation for their smooth sailing until recent times.

She and Charlie were close in age, and for many years had gotten along quite well, so it was true to say that the lack of rumours in the past was more remarkable than the newly started ones.

There was always talk swirling involving staff having relations at one time or another, even the most unlikely of pairings, and butlers were often the most popular targets of such gossip. The more aloof and respected the butler, the more muddy and indecent the tales, it seemed.

There were some circumstances that led to a lack of scandalous scenarios about the butler and women. If the butler's preferences ran in another direction, for example. She chortled quietly to herself, trying to imagine anyone suspecting Mr Carson of such a leaning.

She reached up and lightly grazed her finger across the cleft of his chin. Betty, a maid who had worked at Downton many many years ago, had told her once that such a flaw in a man highlighted his virility and masculinity.

She'd sneered at that old wife's tale at the time, telling the wee lass it rather highlighted his patience, if anything, considering the extra care and time he needed to take when using a razor in its vicinity.

"But you've never been a patient man, Mr Carson," she mused aloud.

"What do you mean?" he said, his tone affronted even though he crept closer so that she could explore the hollow in his chin freely. "Patience is a virtue," he added.

"Yes," she agreed with the sentiment even though she didn't think patience was a trait he'd ever developed.

The sleekness of his cleanly shaven face distracted her from sharing this thought. She let her hand drift across her own face to compare its smoothness with that of Charlie's. Thankfully, she thought, wrinkles and age spots could not be felt.

Yes, another explanation as to the lack of talk surrounding their relationship was Elsie's obvious lack of beauty. No one would assume Mr Carson would not be able to control himself around his dowdy housekeeper.

She remembered Thomas hinting at something one day when Miss O'Brien was still employed at the house. The then-footman and lady's maid's subsequent discussion had been quite enlightening.

Still thinking along these lines, she noted flippantly: "Of course, it's not as if I am any temptress."

Obviously they'd jumped from subject to subject too much at this stage, because instead of agreeing, Charlie only murmured, "I'm not sure I understand."

She opened her mouth to elaborate, only to find his attention had been diverted. He was no longer looking at her face even, his gaze had drifted down.

In her haste, she hadn't bothered to cover the yellow nightdress, and now the cool night air bitingly sent her a reminder regarding her immodesty. It had to be the cold night air, she thought. Charlie's gaze couldn't be the sole reason her nipples had hardened and pressed firmly against the flimsy material of the night attire's bodice.

She shivered, either from the fresh air or the ridiculousness of her introspection, she wasn't sure which. As she had concluded earlier, she was as attractive as she ever would be. And it was time she and Charlie ceased their carry on and returned to the warm security of the bed. "If there's something we should be ashamed of, it's this," she declared positively.

He quickly lifted his gaze at her words, making her even colder, she noticed.

"You think we should be ashamed of…" His shoulders slumped, embodying defeat. "You've decided it's unacceptable for us to… Share a bed?"

"Heavens!" She hadn't expected him to interpret her words like that at all. "No!" she instantly denied. "It's unacceptable how silly we've been since we stepped off that train," she corrected him. "We've been circling each other as if one of us will bite. We shouldn't let-" She waved towards that foreboding third piece of furniture. "-This… Come between us. I didn't marry you for the sole reason of tasting forbidden fruit."

He stood, silent, and she wondered if she'd offended him by talking so crudely.

"Charlie?" she prompted. Still, he never said anything. His hands hung listlessly by his side, his gaze was solely focused on the threadbare carpet runner that led from the wardrobe to the door.

She panicked completely when he then turned his back to her. Before he could move too far away, she quickly reached up and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. She felt the muscles there contract beneath her touch.

Days later, whilst splashing in the shallows on the Scarborough waterfront, Elsie would conclude this would have been the perfect time to clip Charlie around the ears, Punch and Judy style.

It might had been the way he'd raggedly posed his next question that managed to keep him safe. "Didn't you?"

She frowned. "Didn't I what?"

He turned and waved his hand around. "Marry me so that we could be together. Absolutely." His voice deepened to an impossible level, a husky appeal tugging at her aural sense. "As a man and woman."

That pain which she now recognised as arousal thrummed across her upper thighs.

He went on: "You could have seen out your days with Mrs Patmore in an estate cottage. Or as a paid companion. For Lady Merton or Painswick, perhaps."

"I married you for…"

She let the sentence go unfinished, realising the element of truth of his words. All along, she'd been thinking about more? She didn't want friendship or companionship from Charlie? For all her good intentions, she simply wanted him to be her husband in the most basic way?

"I was selfish," he murmured, "and took full advantage, and it only just dawned on me during the train ride that it's up to me to…"

A terrible thought hit her at that moment. He couldn't have presumed she thought he was anything else but innocent when it came to love making, so was there another reason entirely for his apprehension?

She wasn't completely ignorant and thought she knew what kept a man from being able to participate in sexual relations. Other than alcohol and sickness, age was quite often bandied around as the blight of men everywhere.

She couldn't help it, it was her gaze that drifted downwards this time. The top of his pyjama pants was covered by his untucked pyjama shirt loosely hanging over it. Furthermore, the striped pattern hid anything inappropriate from her view.

"Charlie? I've heard stories that things don't always work. At our age."

He turned beet red, obviously uncomfortable at her inquiry. His mouth gaped, and then snapped shut.

Apparently though, his old familiar pride conquered his anxiety on this particular subject! "We'll have no worries on that score," he declared positively, pompously puffing out his chest.

"How do you know?" She tilted her head in genuine curiosity. He had just admitted there was no other women…

"Because I… Men… We…"

Her mouth quirked. "Yes?" She recognised she was now really only egging him on, and especially so when she added, saucily: "Women don't do such things, of course?"

He took her bait beautifully. His neck, and even the tips of his ears, bloomed as red as his face.

"Some women do, but not ones as admirable as yourself," he insisted, all the while she could not stop herself from laughing. This, of course, only seemed to make him angrier, which in turn made her laugh more.

She sobered abruptly though when he reached up to loosen the pins that had been keeping her hair in place. A few curls bounced haphazardly across her forehead.

"When I alighted from the train, I realised it was time for me to follow through with my intentions, and I panicked a little. Perhaps I should have gotten some advice…"

Her humour returned as his words trailed off. The image of him asking Lord Grantham, or even Mr Bates, for advice on such matters was a comical one, that was certain.

He disposed of the final hairpin and began to massage her scalp.

"Everything I know is what I've heard in hallways or dance halls. Hardly the tutorage you deserve."

He was fretting because he didn't think he would be good enough for her? As she had told a man once, she hadn't lived in a sack, and she knew it wasn't often thought to be a man's prerogative to satisfy women.

"That's quite a liberal way of thinking, Mr Carson."

Instinctively, she wriggled closer. His hands swept from her hair to draw a pattern of circles across her back.

"You're getting soft in your dotage, Mr Carson," she accused gently.

His only reply was another disgusted grunt.

"We are getting old, though," she conceded quietly. She gestured behind her. "Perhaps we should… Rest..."

Without waiting for him to agree, she shifted out of his arms and busied herself by, this time, lighting up the room with a candle. After it was emitting a soft comforting glow, she placed it upon the low dresser and Charles moved to once again turn off the electric light.

Whilst his back was turned, she lifted her nightgown over her head, placed it on the floor, and slipped into the bed. Arranging the covers to hide everything from her shoulders down, she shivered not only from the cold on her bare skin but also from anticipation.

Charlie stepped to the side of the bed and hovered. With a sense of deja vu washing over her, she clung to the bed covers.

"From what I've heard, I do think things will be over rather quickly, and then you can catch up on some sleep. All the excitement of the wedding, and the journey… You must be rather tired…"

She swallowed. Before she could vocalise any of her whirling thoughts he'd removed his own pyjama shirt.

"We'll need to put these back on afterwards," he announced in a confident tone, but she did decide that his bravado was all false. Especially when he spun in an aimlessly odd circle beside the dresser, his hand waving just so, before seemingly taking charge of his actions and retrieving her nightgown to place it alongside his pyjama top.

"I suppose," she finally agreed quietly, mostly for simply something to say. She was busying herself by intently studying his naked upper body as he moved around the room.

She'd not admit it to Charlie, but she'd seen a unclothed man's body before. However, that accidental moment of mortification had not prepared her for this reaction. She was quite pleased she was no longer standing; she wasn't sure her legs would have held her upright.

Charlie's chest, free of hair other than one proud streak of grey cutting down its centre, was much more well-built than she would have imagined for a man his age. His colouring was naturally darker than hers, his large flat nipples a deep maroon, so different to the dusky pink of her own wee ones.

She swallowed down a whimper when she had a sudden mental image of his almost olive-skinned hardness and her pale soft curves contrasting as they pressed together.

Finally, with an audible inhalation of breath, he pulled back the sheet on his side of the bed, and lowered himself dramatically. A warrior going into battle. In fact, his jerky manoeuvring to reach his goal of lying beside her was so theatrical that she could no longer stifle yet another snort of mirth.

This time, however, with a faint grumble that conveyed he was defeated, he dipped his head and cut off her laughter quite effectively by kissing her.

Again she was surprised by the subtle differences of each kiss they'd shared. This one had a tenderness about it that elicited from her a small sigh of relief and peacefulness. Everything was going to be fine. Yes, she decided as his mouth moved lower until he was whispering kisses across the skin peeking out from the edge of the sheet, she might have just married him for this.

"I'm no better than a young featherbrained maid," she murmured as his tongue swirled distractingly. "Here I am, as wanton as any other woman."

"It's not the same."

He had to stop kissing her to speak unfortunately.

She bit down on her bottom lip and stared up at him helplessly. She determined she liked him balancing above her, close enough to touch and staring down at her with a doting smile.

"Because we're married? You think it's as simple as that?"

"Yes," he declared, his arrogance returning slightly. "If you had simply wanted to know a man, you could have," he muttered.

She doubted that statement. Obviously Charlie would be the only one she could trust in this way.

She dared to tease him though. "So you think you're the only man I've ever wanted?" she asked as she gave into that burning desire to touch him, smoothing down his thick eyebrows.

"You did reject that red-faced farmer," he pointed out.

She snorted again. He never said Joe's name if he come up in a discussion of past loves. Her old beau would be forever relegated to the 'red-faced farmer' by Charlie. She had never asked why, but now she wondered if he was jealous. But why on earth would he need to be jealous? Did he not know that he would always be superior if she had to carry out comparisons between him and any other man?

"I couldn't afford to do otherwise," she confided. "Asking him to pay for Beccy's care…" She shook her head. "I suppose I could have earnt my keep…"

"You were not meant to be any man's drudge," he growled as her fingers traced a path to his lips.

"I don't think he would have been that demanding. But Charlie-" She paused, and took a deep breath before continuing; he had turned his head and was gently kissing the tips of her fingers. "-I always thought that you and I…"

She took another deep breath. If she told him she thought they always had a passion simmering beneath the surface, he'd most likely be outraged at her depravity.

"Really?" he asked, his tone skeptical, even as he leaned back and swept the sheet to one side.

Lazily, he cupped her breasts, just as she had done earlier, and simply held them. Only it wasn't as she had done earlier, because it was _his_ large and capable hands.

And his mouth now... Kissing the voluptuous flesh he'd fully exposed. It felt decadent. And right, and she heard herself mewling with pleasure.

Next, she was lost completely. He lifted one breast higher and bent over it until his mouth covered one of her nipples. She relaxed into the pillow, closing her eyes and making her own slow exploration of his scalp, threading her fingers through his hair, so unusually ruffled, firmly keeping him in place. Yes, she didn't want him to ever stop…

He found her other nipple, circling its sharp tip with his thumb, as he continued to suckle on its mate.

Then, she cried out much louder than she ever imagined she would when he pinched and pulled at one sharply while his teeth grazed over the other.

He froze. She opened her eyes to his expression, which was one of horror. He let his hands fall away, and knelt back, away from her.

"I hurt you?" he asked in a small voice.

"No!" she quickly denied, blushing.

Her bottom lip bore the brunt of her shame and she felt him studying her scarlet face for the longest time.

Finally, she tried to make a joke. "You really will think I'm some common tramp if I continue to make such noises..."

"Of course," he declared, his tone imperious as he too attempted to be humourous, but his eyes soft and indulgent. One of his hands snaked out to rest upon her hip, possessively. "I've always thought as much, Mrs Hu-."

"I don't mind, really." She placated this new horror of again nearly calling her by her maiden name by pressing a hard kiss onto his shoulder.

"We're a couple of old fools is what we are," she added, daring to let her fingers brush against that mysterious line of hair on his chest. She followed the feathery fur down until it disappeared beneath the waistline of his pyjama bottoms, not daring to go further. Clearly she was not as bold or modern as she'd assumed.

"Sometimes I enjoy reminiscing of when you first arrived at Downton, so young and brash," he murmured, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "and womanly."

"Womanly?" she asked laughingly. "I was not too thin?" Men liked buxom curves, and she had been a tiny sparrow of a lass two decades ago.

Her confidence ebbed when he never answered her actual question, but instead said, "You made quite the first impression."

"I remember that I thought-" She broke off her confession with a gasp.

"I know what you thought," he said sharply.

Her eyes widened. "Charles Carson! You knew?"

End of Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3

"Charlie!"

Elsie spun around, searching for the feminine voice saying her husband's name. Of course, it wasn't her husband the woman was calling. A toddler was waddling across the sand as fast as his chubby legs could carry him. The owner of the voice, his mother one would assume, was looking dishevelled and flustered, just catching the child by the arm before he stumbled into the potentially dangerous water.

 _Charlie_... She still couldn't quite believe how easily the name fell from her lips since he'd proposed.

She'd only ever called him 'Mr Carson' up until that point. Now and then, she'd scolded him with his full name. 'Charles Carson, whatever are you thinking?' seemed to slip out before she could think better of such impertinence and catch it.

But Mr Grigg had called him 'Charlie' and somehow she'd thought it more intimate when deciding on how to address a man who would be her husband. She found herself tentatively testing the waters, so to speak, and using that name during the New Year's festivities. From his reaction, that boyish and humbled smile, she assumed he was pleased. Certainly he'd never corrected her henceforth.

Charlie had been the name of Ethel's wee bairn, a sweeter child she could not remember, but such a sad situation. His life would still be balanced precariously between the classes, she supposed.

Oh, how she and her Charlie had tussled so over that particular maid's dilemma. Elsie should have brought up their initial dealings at Downton at the time, she reckoned now. After all, it had seemed he'd known all along about her suspicions.

"Did I know that when you first started at Downton you thought I was having an affair with one of the housemaids?" he'd asked after they'd been talking of their first meeting on their wedding night.

He was seemingly not too concerned about her confession that she had cast such aspersions upon his character. Instead, his interest had been piqued by the faint red line that he'd found on the underside of her breast.

Charlie's finger traced the scar's path back and forth as he spoke, proving he still had a butler's skill for concentrating on more than one thing at a time. "Yes, I did," he added, with every appearance of not being angry. In fact, he sounded amused by her indiscretion.

Before she could begin to fathom the implication, he was changing the subject. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

He looked up, and she was so distracted by that one lock of hair curling on his forehead that it took her a moment to actually realise he was referring to her scar. "No, just occasionally itches like the devil," she replied. "Often at the most inopportune times. Imagine that stickler of a butler's face should I have started scratching it when greeting a member of the peerage."

He emitted a pleased rumble before he began kissing along the puckered mark left from the cyst removal.

"It wasn't only one housemaid," she admitted vaguely, perhaps to distract herself from wanting to again clutch his hair and direct him to her throbbing nipple.

"What?" he murmured airily. He was too preoccupied to be insulted, it seemed.

She gave in to her desire to touch him in return; massaging his shoulders and neck. She dug her nails into the fleshy muscle as it shimmied beneath her each time he moved from one breast to the other, which she was sure he was now doing with a deliberate intent. He would suckle and kiss and explore one and its nipple relentlessly and thoroughly, until she thought she would faint from not being able to take this regard a moment longer. At that exact moment, he'd swap to the other side, and her tolerance levels would even out for the shortest while before they would again slide dangerously close to shattering.

She actually needed him to stop for a moment before she lost all sense. She was panting and gasping for air, all while lying stationary and doing little but clutch his shoulders!

"I thought you were abusing your position and having sexual relations with at least three of the maids," she said in a rush when he had leant back to alter sides once more.

He looked up then and his eyes flashed darkly in the muted light.

"I hope once we met, you realised the error of your ways."

She was simply concentrating on inhaling and exhaling by this time. "Not exactly…"

She had first arrived at Downton during one the family's frequent jaunts to London. Charlie had, of course, been travelling with them and, therefore, she'd been installed as the housekeeper for several months before they met.

The skeleton staff left at the house that year had included the head cook, Mrs Collins, and kitchen and house maids numbering almost fourteen.

The agency advised that her predecessor, Mrs Murdoch, had not approved of Lady Grantham's Jewish roots; or her American ones for that matter. Elsie had jumped at the chance to work at Downton again, being familiar with the house from her brief time there as head housemaid.

Of course, she would have accepted any position at the time. Her previous employer, Lady Fairfield, had passed away. Lady Fairfield's family was continuing to pay her wages and gave her an exemplary reference with a promise of hiring her in their London house should she not find suitable employment within a two month period. There they already had a capable housekeeper, however, so the position would be head housemaid. That step down, and the fact that Elsie had always regarded herself as a country girl at heart and was not keen on living in London, meant she'd grasped the Downton offer with both hands before thinking too long on the decision.

And in her excitement, she had not taken any time to delve too deeply into the background or reputation of Downton's butler.

Mr Fulton, Lady Fairfield's butler, was 72 and had retired straight after his mistress's death. It was suffice to say Elsie had basically been allowed free reign over that house for some time.

She was told Mr Carson would be much more involved in the housekeeper's activities.

"Interfering, is how I'd put it, in my own words," Mrs Collins, the Downton cook, informed her during her first week.

Mrs Collins went on to say that it was Mr Carson who had been unhappy with Mrs Murdoch and arranged for her resignation. It was nothing to do with her disapproval of Lady Grantham, or vice versa. Every decision in the household was made by Mr Carson. He had no time for a woman's point of view. No time for a housekeeper's authority. Yet lots of time for fraternising with the younger female staff, she hinted.

"You'll need to watch yourself, you will."

"But when I spoke with Lady Grantham-"

Mrs Collins cut her off. "You don't think she runs Downton, do you? Oh no, this is Mr Carson and the Dowager Countess's domain, this is. They're as thick as thieves, they are. She was the one who employed him, you see. When Lady Grantham was visiting her mother in America, no less. To deliberately embarrass Lady Grantham, to be sure."

Mrs Collins's habit of adding unnecessary comments at the end of her sentences was getting on Elsie's nerves already and making it difficult to get the gist of their discussion. "Embarrass her?" Elsie wondered aloud.

"Mr Carson was put on as a ploy to undermine her son's new wife, you see. He was far too young to be the butler of a grand house as this, surely. And we never were privy as to who his previous employers were, still today. The Dowager set him up to fail, mark my words. And for his failure to make Lady Grantham look foolish, you see."

"And Lord Grantham allows this?" she asked, skeptical.

Although they were not in the kitchen and Mrs Collins's hands were clean of food, the cook wiped them down her apron. A habit, Elsie supposed. Or something else… Her instincts told her that all was not what it seemed with this lofty and big-boned woman.

"Mr Carson has been here nearly ten years," Elsie reminded the cook. This much Elsie _did_ know.

"Yes, he's been here for longer than anyone reckoned, that's a fact. But as for the rest? Well, you'll have to wait and see, Mrs Hughes, won't you."

Mrs Collins turned and walked away then, insolently dismissing Elsie.

"She was right about that," Charles told her after Elsie had relayed the story. "I suspect the Dowager knew about my life on the stage when she approved my appointment." He shook his head. "I jumped at the chance to work somewhere like Downton so quickly that I never thought through why they'd employed me until much later," he said, not knowing this confession gave them something in common she would have never imagined. "And then, when I did put two and two together, I think it made me even more determined to make a go of things."

"Which you did," she said with a smile, proud for him. His reputation as a butler was incomparable.

"No, I merely muddled along before you came to my rescue," he insisted, kissing along her shoulder blade now.

"Don't be silly." Still, she couldn't help but glow at his words. And it was true that once she'd settled into the routine of the house, they had made a nice team.

"Elsie, it's completely true. My job became a hundred percent easier with you by my side."

His thumb circled her navel, and then followed the couple of fine hairs that grew near it down… Down… Down, until he reached her triangle of darker hair.

"We seem…" He swept back the tight grey and golden curls. "...To complement each other, don't you think?"

She arched her back and gasped out his name, but he just patiently stared with fascination.

Finally, when she thought she could no longer tolerate the tension building, his thumb gently brushed against the vulnerable flesh he'd exposed. The pleasurable ache in her lower abdomen surfaced yet again. She bit down on her bottom lip, and forced herself not to beg, although she assumed her hips lifting off the mattress might have given him some indication of her mindset.

"Charlie Grigg…"

Elsie frowned and stiffened. Why had he taken his hand away from between her legs? In fact, where was he?

She opened her eyes, a little disconcerted that she couldn't even remember closing them.

"Charlie?" she whispered.

He was kneeling near the end of the bed.

She pushed past the bereft feeling which instantly settled upon her from this forced distance he was putting between them. With a brave wobbly smile, she patted the bed beside her; a needy invitation. Her heart jumped for joy when he accepted the overture with his own crooked smile, and came to snuggle alongside her. This wasn't second thoughts then, at least.

Yet thinking about the other Cheerful Charlie could hardly be conducive to the required mood for the evening!

"Why would you be mentioning his name now then?" she wondered aloud, tidying his hair that was sticking out in clumps here and there, and blushing again when she acknowledged how the tufts had come to be.

"I know you, and everyone else, make light of my life before Downton. But…"

Her frown deepened. "Yes?" she encouraged.

"He liked to taunt me. My lack of worldliness when it came to women amused him greatly. And my lack of taking what was on offer. 'You can click your fingers and those lovelies in the audience will come running', he would insist."

"But you didn't," she reminded him. "You were an honourable man before and after you arrived at Downton. There are not many who can say that."

"Yes, it was true, I refused any offers from the tarts he'd arranged to harass me. But he had other things."

Elsie mind boggled. She, the family, and any of the servants that knew of his background on the aulds always found it amusing, but obviously the memories for Charlie were not at all funny. Wracked with guilt, she reached over and cupped his cheek tenderly.

"And I made you forgive someone who bullied you for my own selfish needs?" she confessed with shame.

He tilted his head slightly, kissed her palm that cradled his face.

"I'm not telling you to fill you with guilt, Mrs Carson, but to explain…"

"Yes?"

"There was all sorts of filth… I suppose my biggest problem was I quite often told him and the women involved what I thought of them, and they would seek revenge for my bad opinion."

"Oh…" Tears glistened in her eyes. She really had shown such a lack of sympathy all this time.

"One time… They planted pictures in amongst my belongings."

"Pictures?" she asked, confused.

"Postcards. Ones depicting…"

Her mouth formed a wide O shape.

Before she could make any type of appropriate response, however, he continued: "They scattered them through my things. I would find one and rip it up, and then, perhaps days or weeks after, I would come across another, and sometimes I would forget what they were, and look at them before…"

"Charles Carson, looking at such things does not make you a lesser man," she assured him. "That simply makes you human."

"No, I know," he agreed quickly. "But I bring it up now because… Well… There were some things I saw that…"

She blinked, but could find no words to what she thought he was trying to tell her. He wanted to do these dirty things he'd seen in the postcards to her on their first night together? Surely she was mistaken. And surely her heart wasn't skipping a beat with anticipation at the very idea.

"I'd like to… I mean…" A fine film of sweat had broken out on Charlie's forehead. "I think I remember what was happening in this one postcard…"

Charlie's face was as red as he claimed Joe's to be. How long had he studied that card? Had he torn it up as he claimed?

She should be appalled, and knew he was most likely appalled to be admitting such a thing. But, of course, her peculiar sense of humour surfaced and her lips twitched uncontrollably.

"Elsie, are you laughing at me?"

"No," she said, attempting to swallow down her guffaws. "No," she repeated and kissed his prominent nose affectionately.

"It's not funny!"

"It is a little," she teased with a gentle smile.

He let out a huff, but their gazes met and she gratefully saw his eyes were also dancing with amusement.

It made her bold.

"Just what was it you had in mind, Mr Carson?"

"The one I am thinking of… The woman in the photograph looked genuinely happy, but I concede she might have been acting."

Elsie couldn't control her snort at that comment, earning her another mock scowl from Charlie.

"I want you to tell me if you find it revolting, and I'll stop immediately. And I'll do the same."

"You've put quite a bit of thought into this, then, Mr Carson."

"Yes. No! I mean… I like to be prepared, but I wasn't… On the train, I..."

She began laughing in earnest again at his stammering.

He took a deep breath, and ignored her teasing as he often did by going on. "And, I believe it might help… Things… Fit."

"Oh," she murmured, now suitably subdued. She again glanced down automatically. This time she couldn't see anything because he'd risen from the mattress and moved to kneel at the foot of the bed.

"Charlie?" she asked, bewildered.

"Scoot up towards me a little more," he commanded in a sweet tone.

Finally, he manoeuvred her, until she was lying with her back on the bed, but her legs were draped over his shoulders. She shivered, confused but excited. How did he ever imagine she could have done this with any other man?

"Charlie?" Her tone was hoarse and strangled.

Next, he leaned forward and kissed her between the legs. Then, his hands parted her gently and his mouth searched deeper.

She could utter no intelligent comment. Instead she simply whispered, "Oh my."

End of Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Somewhere above Elsie a bird shrieked. She tilted her head back to search the sky, and caught its shape as it contentedly floated upon the wind's updraught. Soon enough it changed direction and swooped, breaking through the sparkling surface a mere few yards away from Elsie's place at the water's edge. Then, with a twist and a flash of grey and white, it ascended to drift in the breeze again.

The gull, as she eventually recognised it to be, repeated its performance many times, greedily returning to dip into the bay again and again. She kept watching it for a long while, its sharp eye focused and alert as it scouted for sparkling silver bounty.

She'd become greedy over the last few days. She'd gone with the smallest of human contact for years. You can't miss what you've never had, her mother used to say. But with their wedding night everything had changed. Going back to how she was, how _they_ were, would not be an easy task.

She still couldn't believe she'd gone from a woman who'd never been kissed, to… Well, for starters she'd not easily forget Charlie's intent to emulate the intimacy he'd seen in the risque postcard!

At first she'd watched with fascination as he bent over her, his brow furrowed in concentration. She felt a strong surge of power shudder through her body along with the tingle of arousal. He was on his knees serving her… When would wonders cease?

Next, the wonders of his tongue licking and circling certain spots took over. Her eyes closed and her shame was complete as she heard herself making whimpering noises in the semi-darkness. She clung onto the bed sheets, digging her fingernails into the mattress to keep herself and her weak limbs from sliding off its edge.

Like one of the marionettes she'd see on the promenade in a few days, she surrendered control of her body over to Charlie. He was the master puppeteer, pulling on her strings with his mouth. But also with his tongue, his lips, his chin, his nose, his fingers… Her awareness and ability to differentiate between each new touch whilst her eyes were shut surprised and thrilled her in equal measure.

Unbelievably, her pleasure increased and her gasps grew louder. It seemed Charlie was warming to his objective with vigorous energy.

Then, abruptly, she reached a point of no return; she trembled from what she could only describe as pure bliss and she cried out with a mixture of relief and awe. Even though it was a frank vocalisation of joy she simply could no longer suppress, she would later rue the sound, and compare it to a banshee on the Moors. However, at the moment she was too busy noting she had developed a new appreciation of her five senses to admonish herself over her noisy fervour.

She could hear the blood pumping through her veins. She could see stars through her closed eyelids. She could taste the salt of her tears. She didn't even remember shedding them, or reckon why. She could smell her own thick earthy scent, mortifyingly hanging in the air, the candle's aroma not quite masking it. She could feel a flush burning all the way from her cheeks to her chest, her pale skin once more hindering any semblance of decorum.

Reluctantly, slowly, she opened her eyes; Charlie was climbing higher in the bed, while she still dangled over its edge awkwardly. She snapped her knees together. They had somehow ended up parting wider and wider, and her ankles were pressing into the mattress base.

Just when she thought she couldn't be more embarrassed, a rush of moisture pooled near where his mouth was previously placed.

Before she could think of how to react to all these matters, she was picked up. She weighed no more than a feather apparently. Charlie settled her comfortably beside him, his breathing reassuringly as laboured as hers. His fingers distractingly danced amongst her hair, tidying its obvious disarray. Had she writhed around on the pillow that much?

He finally spoke. "Well?" he asked, his eyes seeking hers.

She couldn't quite meet his eyes. "I'm so sorry," she said without any particular reason she was apologising in mind. Other than the noises she'd made, and the sheet she'd probably stained and twisted, and the way she'd just laid back whilst he did all the work and yet she now felt exhausted.

"Oh, I thought… I'm sorry." He inched away from her. "I didn't… You seemed… It was too depraved," he said. Not a question at all, but an affirmation which made her instantly frown.

"It was?" she asked, confused and worried. She needed to shout out in denial; rebuke this claim for all it was worth.

She had been sure he'd enjoyed it. Well, if not enjoyed exactly, at least found it tolerable enough to see it through to the end for her sake. Charlie always wanted to do everything right, and she supposed he was adding pleasing his wife to his list of personal obligations.

She would concede she'd kept her eyes closed the entire time, but she'd still thought he'd been enthusiastic at one stage. Perhaps she had just talked herself into believing that because she had never felt so… Satisfied was one way to put it. Plus she was quite surprised how free and independent she felt after the experience.

"Don't get angry," she pleaded quietly, "but I had found the entire act quite liberating. And very… Good," she finished, although good was such an inadequate adjective. She was still feeling a little dim-witted and an extensive vocabulary was escaping her right now.

"Thank goodness," he said with a relieved sigh, adjusting his body so they were again closer, but still had some room between to manoeuvre. "Of course I'm not angry. I was a little confused, that's all. If I'd read your enjoyment completely wrong, I'd have to admit I don't know you as I thought I did." He rested his forehead on her forehead, capturing her gaze as he did. "And that," he whispered, "Elsie Carson, would break my heart completely."

"Oh, you." She slapped him lightly on the chest, but then let her hand linger there, exploring the different textures at the same time. His mouth found hers and they began to kiss again. Soft, gentle kisses, to fill the lull before they moved to the next step in their love making. "You romantic old duffer," she mock scolded against his lips.

He pulled away slightly. "I want you to not worry," he said seriously, "I won't force you to reciprocate."

She blinked. Then, after a moment it dawned on her he was talking about. Without thinking of the consequences, she literally licked her lips. And without any control, she looked straight down. Quite appalling behaviour, she'd acknowledged later.

This time, the way he was positioned, or the way his pyjama pants were positioned… Or... Something… She could see… Something...

Her hand moved, again quite on its own volition, and she lightly brushed the back of her hand against the pronounced bunching.

This slightest of touches had a similar effect as his touch had on her a few moments ago. He groaned, louder than she was expecting from such meagre contact, causing her to jump in fright and pull her hand away quickly.

He made a gruff apologetic sound at the back of his throat and in response she giggled like a young maid.

He firmly kissed her again. She was getting quite used to his kisses now, but she was still fascinated by how each was unique in its own way.

She was suddenly so glad she'd waited until Charlie was ready to share a physical relationship. She couldn't imagine sharing all these new discoveries with anyone else. "You know you're the only I could ever…"

He gripped her wandering hand and lifted it to his mouth, brushing his lips across her knuckles. "Yet you imagined I'd done such things to three maids?" He cocked one thick eyebrow, and feigned a scowl.

"Three maids at the same time, in fact," she teasingly confirmed with a nod.

His real horrified look made her lips twitch.

Soon after Elsie started at Downton, she discovered there was quite the twitter of excitement amongst the female staff each time Mr Carson's name came up in general conversation. The girls' talk included mentions of marriage and money, which made no sense at first, but she soon realised they were all embroiled in some type of competition. There was a pool of money to be collected should the butler take a wife before the end of winter.

"I don't quite understand." She had again approached Mrs Collins, the most senior member of the staff other than herself.

"What's not to understand, Mrs Hughes?"

"A butler cannot marry, and certainly once a maid has, her career will be over."

"A career, you say? Is that what you'd be calling it, then? Well, the hoity-toity housekeepers might call it a career, but most maids would be calling it biding time until they can find a man, for sure. If you're going to wait on someone hand and foot, you might as well get some added benefit of a bit of a romp under the sheets now and then, mark my words."

"I don't think there's any need for such talk, Mrs Collins," Elsie noted sourly. Not only was the cook being unnecessarily crude, she was belittling the path Elsie and many other women had chosen to take.

"Yes, hoity-toity indeed! Although you're a Scot, so I'd say that's for show, I would," Mrs Collins peered down her nose, which was oddly thin and pointy compared to the rest of her solid frame. "You've set your sights on Mr Carson yourself then, have you?"

"No!" Elsie denied hotly. She hadn't even met the man! "I just don't think it's very appropriate that the maids are being distracted from their duties by-"

"Fine men are hard to come by, they are," Mrs Collins cut her off. "And most of the maids think they'll be able to keep him in line and blinker his wandering eyes once they have a ring on their finger, you see. In the mean time he certainly isn't opposed to the attention, if you get my meaning, Mrs Hughes, and I'm sure you do." The cook turned and headed for the kitchen, effectively dismissing Elsie once again.

Before entering her domain, Mrs Collins did throw one last piece of advice over her shoulder in Elsie's general direction: "You should watch yourself, you should. He's had a couple of redhead sticks for girls visit his room so I'm sure you're his type, I am."

"That old battleaxe!" Charlie growled after Elsie related this conversation. "Wandering eyes! Opposed the the attention! No girls had ever visited my rooms!" As he ranted, she escaped his grip and she explored his chest again, mentally measuring its impressive breadth, letting the feathery hair tickle her palms, circling his dark nipples with her fingertips.

"No wonder you were apprehensive when I returned that year," he commented, only the slight falter in his tone an indication that he was affected by her ministrations.

"Yes, and our first meeting was not what I imagined…"

"And you were much more stubborn and defiant than I imagined a housekeeper could be in her first week."

"I'm sorry," she mumbled unapologetically. She tried kissing his nipple, eager to understand why men found the action so appealing. She thought it might be something to do with the sharp contrast between soft and hard. Although, she realised with a frown, Charlie's chest was quite muscular and hard also.

He grunted, reminding her she should make an effort to keep up with their conversation. "You do bring out the worst in me, Mr Carson," she admitted.

"Or the best," he suggested.

To that she only made some incoherent reply before nipping the raised flesh without undue pressure. She didn't dislike the act but Charlie carried on as if he did, growling and using his superior weight to push her off and pin her to the mattress.

"I like it," he said, contradicting her thoughts. His gaze wandered slowly over her nakedness. Her own nipples obediently stood to attention for his gaze. "I like them." He covered both her breasts with both his hands. She always thought she was fairly well endowed in the area, but they disappeared in his huge paws. "Our tussles." He separated the fingers of one hand until her nipple peeked out indecently. "You do have a knack of eliciting my passions..."

"Mr Carson," she started, but then gasped as his head lowered and he lapped fiercely on the impertinent point.

When she was making those banshee noises again, he relented and looked up, smug. "I suppose it's much too late to make a good first impression," he whispered softly.

He was right in assuming she'd decided on her first impression of him before they'd even had a chance to meet.

Even if the cook was lying about Mr Carson's involvement, the lack of discipline amongst the staff did not bode well.

There was, it seemed, three main contenders in the competition to snag the reputedly handsome butler. Elsie took quite a while to ascertain which three maids these were, because from what she could gather, only Miss O'Brien was immune to his charms.

Elsie met Miss O'Brien oh too soon, when Lady Grantham had returned to the house earlier than her husband and young daughters, and right from the start she and the lady's maid failed to see eye to eye on any subject. So the disapproval of this woman in particular didn't immediately diminish how Elsie perceived Mr Carson's widely reported appeal.

Much to Elsie's exasperation, when hearing of Mr Carson's imminent return to Downton, many of the female staff even attempted to spruce up their looks by using rags in their hair and pinching their cheeks to mimic a healthy glow.

Elsie's introduction to Mr Carson finally came about when she was in the servants' hall, embroiled in yet another fiery debate with Miss O'Brien. He swept in, informing them of his general disapproval for raised voices.

It was obvious from the onset he was totally at ease with being in charge. He seemed to fill the room with both his size and demeanour. The rest of the occupants faded away, insignificant. All attention focused obediently on his every word and action.

"Mrs Hughes, I shall give you the benefit of the doubt, considering your newness here at Downton, but I do hope this type of behaviour is not something I will come across frequently now that you've taken the helm."

She would need to rethink her theory that discipline was not his strong point, considering the way her own knees knocked at his clipped instructions. His voice was deep and smooth, with the perfect Yorkshire accent suggesting he'd at one time been a local to the area.

Behind her Miss O'Brien quickly recapped her version of events, one which placed Elsie in a most unprofessional light.

Elsie swallowed down her anger and embarrassment. First impressions count, she fretted.

"Mrs Hughes?" he prompted. He was waiting for her side of the story.

Elsie bit her tongue, deciding that if she said too much about the issue, and how she thought Mrs Collins was spurring on the younger lady's maid, she would simply sound untrained and unable to handle the female staff.

"You're right, Mr Carson, disturbing the house is not the correct approach. Please, Miss O'Brien, join me in my sitting room. We will finish our discussion there in private," she said, turning towards the servants' hall exit.

"Wait," Mr Carson commanded.

Slowly Elsie turned and Mr Carson stepped closer. His scent permeated into her pores. He smelt of leather and cedar, baking soda and tallow, pine and beeswax.

"I think it might be for the best that I join you, Mrs Hughes." His voice was low. She felt like he was bent, whispering the words urgently near her ear. Only her neck was craned so this couldn't be the case.

Her heart raced and she tried to concentrate fully on the occupation she was employed in. If she agreed and accepted his help she would appear weak to the female staff, especially those who had only returned from London and were still getting to know her ways. But to refuse was insubordination.

She finally forced herself to look away from his interesting features to glance over his shoulder to Miss O'Brien who hovered behind him.

"Thank you," she said, spurred on by Miss O'Brien's smug expression, "but I think I can handle it alone."

He demanded attention though, stepping closer again. She bent her neck further backwards to hold his gaze. She did so determinedly for what felt like hours, even though it was probably only a matter of seconds. She noted his dark eye colour, the slightly ruddy tinge of his cheeks, the vertical wrinkle that marred the bridge of his nose.

He cleared his throat noisily, prompting her to shake her head in an attempt to clear this new tendency of wanting to itemise each aspect of his appearance.

"I think, seeing as you've only just started-"

"No." Later, when she knew him better, she would know he was almost ready to explode at her interruption, but if she was an efficient housekeeper, any further temper tantrum by Miss O'Brien did not need to be witnessed by the butler.

An efficient housekeeper would handle all issues regarding the female staff. Butlers were too important to be saddled with the women. Yes, she should remember all men liked to be reminded of their superiority.

"I'm sure you have much more important matters you could be attending to than a minor disagreement between two female servants," she said in the most placating tone she could manage.

After a moment he bowed his head in acquiescence. His hair was a glossy black, parted neatly to one side, and was starting to recede. She wondered whether he had any idea about the wayward curl just above his left ear as she turned to leave the servants' hall again, this time with Miss O'Brien in tow.

All and all, she'd thought she came through the entire event quite unscathed. Except for the clammy palms, and the racing heart, and the goosepimples spreading beneath her clothes.

"Being attracted to you could never be," she said now. He was giving her a brief respite from suckling her nipple but his hands were softly massaging her breasts. "I had to provide for Becky. But, I'll readily admit if you'd given me any encouragement, things might have been very different. I'm not sure if I could have resisted."

Yes, her reactions to him that first day definitely pointed to her being instantly enthralled by Charlie. Then, and now.

She let out a shuddering sigh and looked down, so ready to move on. She reached out and brushed against the visible bulge with the back of her hand, and watched as the pyjama pants material did a jig in response. He'd made the comment earlier about making her ready so things would fit. She wasn't a complete innocent; she knew men came in different shapes and sizes, but...

"Does it make any difference, do you think?" she asked.

She bit her bottom lip and slowly began to untangle the knot which held up the waist of his pyjama bottoms. Beneath it was a button, straining to be free. She popped it easily.

"What?"

"That you're so large."

"Mrs Hughes!" He automatically addressed her with her maiden name in his agitation. "You'd better explain to me how you know such a thing!"


	5. Chapter 5

Elise's heart beat rapidly and a fine film of perspiration was building on her forehead, but not all from the sun.

She looked up to concentrate on the gull's flight path again, hoping it might take her mind away from the dramatic memories of her wedding night, but it was not to be.

She smiled at that particular thought. Not everything was dramatic, she would concede. Some things that occurred were quite humourous.

She remembered twittering merrily and raising her eyebrows as Charlie had demanded to know just whose body she had seen in such a state that she could make comparisons with his size and know he was large. After his delightfully predictable reaction, she'd teased him even further. "How do you know I was meaning the size of-" Instead of finishing the question completely, Elsie had just bobbed her head downwards.

When she looked up again, she began to laugh in earnest at the silly expression on his face. "Silly," she even said aloud, kissing his nose again. "I have no way of knowing for sure, of course," she said, matter-of-fact and prim. "I just assumed." His bushy eyebrows climbed higher towards his hairline. "From your height," she elaborated with another puff of laughter.

At that last comment his face went even redder, if that was at all possible. Then, without any hint of warning, he kissed her. Just the smallest kiss, placed upon her cheek, as quick as hers upon his nose had been.

And for some reason, it became the sweetest kiss they'd shared since their first. Her pulse quickened just as much as if he had kissed her long and hard, as he would later, with her just clinging to his shoulders trying to keep up. With this gentle kiss, and the way he'd gazed at her after its soft touch, it was her heart trying to keep up, which was terrifying as well as exhilarating, especially at such a delicate time.

"I don't think it works that way," he was saying, indulgent, his earlier distress at her assumption apparently having evaporated completely.

"It doesn't?" She realised her mood had altered just as quickly as his. Her humour had faded along with his indignation, and her demeanour was now completely solemn. Trembling and breathless, her lip was wedged firmly between her teeth as he manoeuvred to drag his pyjama bottoms off his body.

Embarrassed, she focused resolutely on his long legs. His hair covering them was also not as thick as one would have thought, something she already knew from the rolled up trousers on Brighton Beach.

"Are you sure?" she rasped immediately as she caught the quickest glimpse of the newly revealed and surprisingly dark skin they'd been debating. She knew the logic of these things said that she could accommodate him, but she felt quite faint with worry suddenly.

"Elsie, I think we should..." He shifted on the bed and she felt something firm press bruisingly against her thigh. "You see, I'm not agreeing that I'm old," he joked, "but I'm not sure I can… Wait any longer..."

Elsie's neatly trimmed nails bit into her palms at the memory. She hadn't wanted to put his inability to wait any longer down to his age! She much preferred to think he was so enamoured by her charms.

Oh, how she loved to tease Charlie about his age. He still claimed he wasn't old, but she could still remember him, if not young, younger. It was one thing that Mrs Collins had touched on that did make her nervous when she finally met Mr Carson in the flesh - his age.

After Mr Fulton's dithering ways, Mr Carson being still only in his early forties would be quite a change. She quickly calculated his age when he had been promoted and realised that this probably did add some weight to the suggestion that the Dowager had been acting mischievous.

It also made her highly anxious about how inappropriate he was acting with the maids. She doubted Mr Fulton would have known what to do with a maid should one have jumped into the bed beside him, but a man in the prime of his life…

She wouldn't allow such behaviour to continue she'd decided on the morning of his return. It was her duty to protect the female staff, and if that meant going up against the butler, so be it.

To do such a thing, and still be employed in her position afterwards, would take careful planning and timing. Therefore, during their first few weeks, she carefully observed him. She searched for any hint he might be slipping into the female section of the attics without her knowledge, or favouring any particular maid, or forcing himself on any of them. She, of course, never did find any evidence of such a thing.

After a while, she realised she wasn't the only one making discreet observations. As she went about her daily business, she started to sense Mr Carson was watching her.

Sometimes she would turn from some task to find him quite near, his lofty height and width of his shoulders infringing upon her personal space.

Often she simply knew his deepset eyes were following her movements from beneath their bushy brows without having to raise her head from her task to confirm if she was to be proven correct or not.

And oddly, even though the idea should have been preposterous, his intense scrutiny didn't perturb her. In fact, she began to relax around him and even found his presence calming at times.

Three months from the date of his return, she made a decision. She decided it was Mr Carson she trusted and believed, and it was Mrs Collins, and the three maids still talking as though one of them would be claiming him as a prize, who would need to go.

She arranged for one maid to be employed by Lady Painswick's house permanently; one was sent to the Flintshire Scottish estate; and one was let go completely, though she did soften and give the girl a reference.

"All three?" he repeated when she explained the arrangements one evening. "At once?"

He smelt of silver polish, but when she quickly glanced down there was no evidence of the grey cream on his hands. His long fingers distracted her momentarily as they curled around the decanter he'd been carrying. She managed to nod, worriedly chewing on her bottom lip. She had never been good at being demure. Now that she had set Beccy up with Mrs Fellowes, she desperately needed this job. What if he thought she was completely batty and let her go instead of the three maids.

"Could I ask why?"

It was a question she'd been prepared for, and she'd thought seriously about telling him some lie, or at least a half truth, on the subject. However, now, with his deep hazel eyes gazing down at her, she realised she could do no such thing. She couldn't lie to him. "No," she stuttered, wondering if she had put herself perhaps at a disadvantage by confronting him in the butler's pantry. "It's best you don't know, Mr Carson. I need you to trust me on this, but I want you to know I'm… I'm on your side."

He would tell her on their wedding night that he had been probing gently to try and get her to admit she thought he was having a love affair with one of these maids, never dreaming she thought all three were suspects.

His gaze took in her flushed cheeks, and then dipped to watch as she licked the ragged skin of her bottom lip. "Alright then," he finally agreed. "Mrs Hughes… Can I just say how well you have fit in with my ways," he said, his ever-so-correct diction full of praise.

She blinked up at him. Shouldn't he be more worried as to whether she was fitting in with the Crawleys?

"And I'm happy to have you on my side."

She let out a breath, one she hadn't even known she was holding. She also hadn't realised she was trying very hard to please him. So much for her stubborn streak of independence that her father had always spoken of.

Flustered at her own submissiveness, she gave him a quick nod, and was at the doorway when he called out, "Mrs Hughes!" unexpectedly.

She turned, her hand gripping the doorknob to steady her, waiting. He cleared his throat and tidied his jacket cuffs, flicking at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve.

"Yes, Mr Carson?"

"I'm… I'm on your side too," he said, gruff.

It was a sentiment he often repeated over the years. One from which she would never tire.

"I'll always be on your side," she whispered now. She spread herself apart so that he could comfortably position himself between her legs. His fingers danced around, touching her intimately, calming her, exciting her. She closed her eyes; he kissed her lids, her earlobe, her neck.

When she realised she was making mewing noises, she felt him shift again, moving away from her.

"Charlie…" Her voice was wispy, needy. Her pelvis lifted off the mattress, searching for his touch.

"Elsie," he murmured, bending forward to kiss the creased skin at the side of her now-wide open eyes.

His hand moved between them again, and this time he was touching himself, positioning himself. Then, she felt a push and the briefest pain.

"Elsie."

She whirled around. Charles stood just behind her, addressing her in such a sensible way. Not at all like the way he was groaning it in her less than proper daydream.

"I brought you back this." He held out an ice-cream. He grinned, his lack of seriousness making her heart skip and her face flush even further. Hopefully, he'd just put that down to her pale skin in the sunlight.

She desperately wanted to step forward and kiss him as a greeting, perhaps grasp his hand. He probably wouldn't appreciate such behaviour in public, so instead she simply thanked him politely.

He bent and rolled his trouser legs up to his knees.

She turned away, faced the bay again, pressed the cold dessert to her lips and chided herself. Surely she wasn't going to instantly combust from the sight of his legs, as long and lean as they were.

"I got this from the chap at the end of the pier," he chatted conversationally, obviously not noticing her uncertainty, or her desire to greet him warmly. "Not at that corner monstrosity," he was continuing, referring to the new ice-cream and soda parlour called the Corner Cafe which had recently opened up in Scarborough, its atmosphere and menu supposedly mirroring those you'd find in America.

She turned to give him some teasing comment, but he was carefully folding his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and she was temporarily mesmerised by the way such a simple thing made his arms appear sculpted and muscular.

"I know, I know," he went on as if she'd spoken anyway. "But I can only support one new thing at a time."

He straightened and pulled down on his waistcoat, full of importance. "I got the tickets," he announced proudly.

"You never did." She knew she must be sporting a grin from ear to ear, and in her excitement, she momentarily ignored her anxious reflection. "I thought there'd be no hope. Was the old butler friend you mentioned really working there then?"

"He was. In the office, as reported. I can't believe it really. A butler of his calibre working for a failed tourist attraction."

She wasn't familiar with this colleague of Charlie's. Or should she say ex-colleague. He'd heard this man had found employment at Galaland and had gone off to see if any tickets to the much sought after grand re-opening of the former Scarborough Aquarium could be obtained.

"He left service a while ago though?" she wondered. She'd not heard him talk about the man until this trip.

"Yes, over 15 years now. We had a nice long chat over tea. He's had many occupations, none very lucrative, but none unworthy, I suppose."

"Praise indeed! Did his employer pass away?" she asked, thinking of Mr Molesley's situation after the death of Mr Matthew, and hers after Mrs Fairfax's death.

"No, no, nothing so ordinary. He… He left because… He married the housekeeper," he finally admitted.

"Well, I never! So we aren't so unique."

"Well… I wouldn't say that."

Somehow his words came out very suggestive. Very unlike him. It made her smile and hope.

"They were forced to resign," he admitted glumly.

"Lucky I was only mildly attracted to you 20 years ago then," she murmured.

"Mildly?" he bit out, disbelieving. Bold, he captured her hand. "I think I can give you one or two examples to prove mild is an inadequate adjective," he added, confident.

She looked down at their joined hands, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles soothingly despite the harshness of his tone. Was it she who did not want to show affection in public? Was she the one so conditioned to hide her attraction to him?

"Do you remember the pin prick?" she whispered.

His breath came out in a huff. "Just before I left for the London Season?"

She nodded. "It was the end of our first year working together," she confirmed. "You remember?" she asked again, faintly.

He had come to her sitting room the night before he was to leave again for London. Quite late at night, after most of the other servants had retired for the evening. She had been seated, head bowed, her attention fully taken with darning socks when her sitting room door had opened after a cursory knock.

"I was wondering if you would like to try this?" he asked, holding out an offer a small glass and a decanter half full of red wine. "Or don't you drink?" he added, hesitant.

"I'm Scottish," she deadpanned in return.

And he smiled at that. It was the first time she'd really seen him smile, and she'd found herself reacting in an unexpected way.

"Oh bother!" she'd exclaimed when before she knew it blood had oozed from one of her fingers. She'd allowed herself to be so distracted by his relaxed expression she'd slipped and the darning needle had pierced her skin.

"What a very foolish thing to do," he chided, making her head lift with indignation immediately. But the sparkle of humour in his features had made any suitable rebuke fade away. He had been making a joke. The first one he'd made since they'd met. She wanted to tell him how nicely it suited him.

He came forward and cupped her hand gently, stemming the flow with a white handkerchief he retrieved from his pocket. For one faint moment, which she was sure was only caused by blood loss, she thought he was going to lift her finger to his mouth and suck the blood from her wound.

A crash from the kitchen made them jump apart.

Shaking, she sank back into her chair and held the handkerchief tightly whilst he poured the drinks.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely as he passed her a glass.

They sipped on their drinks without saying another word. And he left the next morning without saying goodbye. And yet…

Her finger bothered her for days afterwards, every time she touched something which set off the sting. And each time it hurt she'd think about him and his lips and his mouth.

His lips and his mouth had certainly made up for the years since their nuptials.

"Are you alright?" he asked after they finally came together completely as husband and wife.

"I think so," she murmured, shifting beneath him until she found it comfortable. "And you?"

He just nodded frantically, making her smile again.

Next, he began to move. And she along with him.

At first, they both moved slowly. Elsie was unsure of just how exactly she was supposed to move, and their first few moments were taken up with her fretting whether she should lift her hips more, and where she should place her hands, and whether or not she should widen her legs further.

That initial awkwardness didn't last, however. Within seconds, being together left her with a comforting feeling, and their movements turned completely natural.

His lower body pulled away from her, but just before they lost contact altogether, he pressed fully inside her once more. He repeated this action, over and over, so slowly, so sweetly, rubbing along her sensitive body parts with achingly patient strokes each time.

Her hands touched his shoulders, drifted down his back, fingering each bone of his spine. She cupped his buttocks as he'd cupped her breasts earlier, fascinated as his muscles clenched and softened as he thrust into her again and again, eliciting soft cries of joy each time.

Then, with a groan, one she was unsure whether or not he or she uttered, he quickened his pace.

"I've been such a fool," she whispered, rocking back against the mattress as every movement became harder and faster.

"No," he replied, as if he knew as to what subject she was referring to when mentioning her foolishness.

Her movements were now flowing with and then counteracting his.

"We shouldn't have waited. So nice." She was rambling and she couldn't stop. It was either this or screaming in pleasure. "We should have done this then. When we were young. When we met. I wanted to, you know. Please say you did too."

"No," he insisted. "Stop it, Elsie." Then, he said the words that made her stiffen beneath him and tears to gather in her eyes. "I only want you now. Not then."

-End of Chapter Five-


	6. Chapter 6

**I want to apologise for how long I've dragged this fic out. Besides my usual whirl of a life, I got a new job a few weeks ago, so it's taken me even longer to finish! I wanted to get it finished and posted before the season started, and I've just made it. (So much has changed already with the spoilers!) Thanks for all the reviews, follows etc. Hope you enjoy this final chapter.**

Elsie blatantly admired Charlie - his familiar broad back, long lean legs, square shoulders - as he still managed to move gracefully, even barefooted through thick sand.

He'd taken a few steps away from her to investigate the sound of cheering and clapping. It wasn't the children, who she could still hear cooing and laughing at the puppet show, but a party of young men further along the beach. An enthusiastically posed 'howzat' echoed across the bay, confirming the men were playing an impromptu game of cricket on the sand.

It hadn't been until she'd been back at Downton for three years that she'd witnessed a village cricket match. Before then, there'd only been a disorganised series of casual matches played, due to the disruption of the Boer War.

Her first taste of the sport came when she and the other staff were required to put on a spread for a village versus the house match. Throughout the day she poured tea, and served scones, and offered sandwiches, and clapped when their side scored a run, and cheered when the umpire declared one of the opposition was out.

She stood in the shade, blaming the sun for her flushed appearance, and regarded one particularly handsome man on the field. She took full advantage of surveying his body as it was required to stretch and flex when bowling or batting. His whites displayed so many finer details which his dark jackets had hidden from view.

At one stage on their wedding night, he'd implied he'd never made similar studies of her body.

"Did you never think about this?" she tearfully implored, stiffening beneath him, caught up in a desperation of needing his desire to be as sustained and impassioned as hers.

He urgently asked her what was wrong, begged to know if and how he might have hurt her. She mumbled some abrupt responses until finally she stammered out an explanation, dismissing physical pain and clarifying that it was his words that had hurt.

She ached from his adamantly commanded suggestion that he had never yearned for them to be this close in the past.

"Oh, Elsie…"

He collapsed from his position above her, slipped out of her body, leaving her bereft and confused even more.

"You've misunderstood me." He pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Of course I always felt attraction tapping at my shoulder around you. I thought I agreed earlier that this want has always been between us?"

"No, no you didn't agree."

He frowned. "I should have," he whispered. "But you see, I don't want you to wonder. Wonder how it would have been if we had just consummated this straight away, captured this love that has always lingered between us instead of leaving it waft in the air, just out of reach. I don't want you to have regrets. I don't want you to admonish yourself about things we can never change."

Her throat constricted with even more pain, beautiful pain this time, however. Why was this big brash, opinionated and chauvinistic man always saying the right thing and making her love him even more. She wriggled closer. They were both lying on their sides, face to face.

"Yes, I thought you were beautiful then," he murmured, his thumbs wiping the tear stains from her face. "Yes, I was attracted to you then. Always." He stared over her shoulder, his eyes focusing, only not, on the dresser. "While performing that albeit weak, but often necessary function that males must partake in, I did, at times, think about one sharp tongued redhead in particular."

Her good humour returned with his shocking confession.

"Heavens to betsy, you're admitting that?" she said with a snort of laughter.

His only reply was an irritated grunt, which only made her laugh more.

She wondered if he would find it awfully insulting if she told him that her favourite thing about him was how much he made her laugh. Then their eyes, both now full of merriment, met for the long time, and she knew that telling him would be a redundant measure.

He leaned forwards, rested his forehead on hers. "Elsie… If you're… Ready… I would rather like to continue where we left off, before things become more… Difficult."

She laughed again before she leaned back to peep at his maleness, strong and sitting snug against his stomach. He _was_ quite ready to continue.

Blushing, she hid her embarrassment by returning to what she knew and was completely comfortable with. She kissed him. Only this time her mouth opened and sought his tongue and its oddly comforting intimacy immediately.

"Yes," she whispered as they eventually parted.

He caught her face and cradled it gently. "No more regrets about what we could have had," he commanded, his tone like that of when he berated the young footmen. "I'd rather thank someone for this beautiful thing we do have."

"Beautiful."

She turned quickly. He'd abandoned watching the cricket game and was standing alongside her again, staring out at the horizon. His words were meant for the view, not offering her a compliment as she'd immediately imagined. She really was getting far too uppity of late. His fault completely…

Feeling foolish, she looked down at her feet and wriggled her toes, popping up some of the moist sand that had gathered upon them. The waves were curling closer up the shore, until they just covered her feet with foam for a moment before receding away. She began to sink deeper and deeper into the sand as this pattern repeated itself.

Beside her, Charlie was resorting to hopping from foot to foot to prevent his feet similarly burying in the sand.

It was still difficult not to have regrets, as much as he insisted they not. She turned her head and regarded his body again now. It was quite different, true, from those early years. Much less lean, from the finer things in life in which he enjoyed. She was thankful that he never overindulged completely like so many other butlers she knew.

She had actually wondered more than once what he might do if he did imbibe a little too much one night. Would things have moved along a step or two should he have been instilled with false bravado? Would she have kissed him as she had on their wedding night? Would she have lain with him on her sitting room settee? Would she have crept into his room late at night, holding her keys rigid to stop them jangling, and joined him in his tiny bed?

These questions could never be answered. She would not be this Elsie Hughes if she had done those things, and he would not be the Charles Carson she loved so dearly if he'd allowed them to happen.

She'd only realised she'd fallen in love with him on the beach at Brighton. And yet, on their wedding night she'd kept wanting him to somehow admit he loved her before that.

"I'm a contrary female and you have every right to put me over your knee and soundly beat me."

He turned away from the water and gave her an indulgent smile. "Yes, you do need a firm hand, Mrs Carson," he murmured.

His actions had almost matched his words that night. Almost...

The firm hand wasn't a raised one, but one that slid along the curve of her buttocks, then drifted down her thighs until it fussed with the back of her knee.

"That tickles," she complained good-naturedly and wriggled out of his reach when his thumb drew an invisible line down her calf.

He grabbed her and rolled over so that he lay on his back with her flung across his bulk, the room singing with their laughter once more.

He moved slightly beneath her, and she slid, until she was straddling him.

"Elsie, there's something else I should tell you," he whispered urgently.

She held her breath and bit down on her tongue, anxious yet confident. How many different ways could a man tell her he loved her before she really relaxed?

"When I said I want you now, not then, I meant I want you now."

"I don't understand…"

"I want you now. As you are now. This body, this one you think is wrinkled and old and not worthy. I think it's perfect. I think it's beautiful. I don't want you to think for a minute that I'm trying to win back my youth by bedding a woman I desired over two decades ago. I'm not trying to recapture anything with a fantasy I had. I desire you _now_."

He reached up, caught her swaying breasts, thumbing her nipple and making her squirm, perhaps enticingly, she thought.

She manoeuvred herself down so she could graze her finger along the dark hair surrounding his erotically exotic skin. Next, she tentatively touched the smooth skin sheathing his rigidness.

"Elsie," he groaned her name.

She instantly pulled her hand away. "Charlie?" She posed his name as a question. Did he like it or not? Should she continue?

His breathing was heavy and his face flushed.

"Yes," he agreed urgently despite the fact she hadn't vocalised her question.

As he could always use his superior strength to refuse she figured, she ever so carefully touched his arousal, wrapped her fingers and thumb around its thickness, and guided him into her body.

She rose and lowered a few times, stretched around him. "Maybe I could have coped with an obedient and meek Elsie. Maybe your independence could have been sacrificed for this..."

Ignoring his rambling, she rocked back and forth, feeling her body adjusting to his size again.

"I'm not good at being meek," she murmured, repeating her earlier thoughts.

"If we had taken up together all that time ago, I would have insisted on you being my wife, with all that would have entailed. And that would have made you a different person. Your position at the house has given you such strength of character. By marrying you, I would have taken that away and you'd be a different person."

"I'm your wife now," she reminded him.

"Being my wife would have been your entire career. You would have cooked and cleaned and tended to my every want. You would have had no thoughts of your own, merely been at my beck and call."

"And this fantasy of yours is different to reality how?" she asked with a laugh.

"Yes… I would have stifled you." He held her gaze. "I am quite serious this time, Elsie, when I say this is the time for us. Enjoy it while we still can," he rasped.

And she did. She lifted herself up to soar above him before crashing down, grinding their bodies together as they pressed hard together, prompting every nerve ending within her to pulse at the action. Again and again and again.

She closed her eyes and let the contented feelings flow throughout her, ignoring the pain in her knees and the muscles she had never needed to use in such ways before now.

He let go of her breasts and dug his fingers into her hips, bruising her skin with his tight grip, lifting himself to meet her, stroke for stroke.

Yes, it wasn't him taking her like she'd read in the occasional novel, or even her taking what she wanted. They were moving together, working together, just as they always did, just as they always should.

And finally their efforts liberated them both. She arched her body and cried out. Waves of pleasure rippled through her and her senses again danced and sung with pure elation.

She felt, rather than heard, Charlie rumble of pleasure beneath her. She slowly opened her eyes. His head was flung back, settled on the edge of one of the thick feather pillows. His eyes were still closed, his face flushed. She was glad for his heavy breathing or she might have thought he was suffering negatively from the act.

"Charlie?"

She had expected him to roar out, voice his pleasure loudly. He was so quiet.

"Charlie?" she repeated, a little more anxiously.

His eyes slowly opened to reveal tears.

"Oh, Charlie." She leaned down, kissed the tears away.

"Am I an old booby or an old duffer?"

"Neither," she whispered near his ear. "An old sweetheart."

His gold fobwatch chain hooked on to one side of his vest caught the sunlight and sparkled brightly in the early afternoon sun, distracting her from her daydream. She smiled wistfully at the now-very wilted and brown flower pinned on the other side. Neither of them had suggested disposing of the boutonniere even though it was now emitting a suspiciously rotting stench.

He glanced over, his mouth tugging itself into a gentle smile when he saw her staring at the floral reminder of their wedding.

"I'm going to miss this," he said.

"Sand? Sun? Or the sea?"

"Threading my fingers through your hair to untangle the wind's knots," he elaborated, "tasting the salt on your skin at the end of the day; applying cold cream to the patches of red."

She bit down on her lip, warmed by the erotic images he was painting with his words.

"I've enjoyed our daily walks," she offered. "I think I shall have to keep them up when we get home."

The word, 'home' fell from her lips so easily nowadays. She meant their cottage, of course. Even Charlie now referred to Downton as the 'house' and their cottage as 'home'.

"You'll have time," he concurred. "Unlike some of us! My first job will be finding a suitable replacement housekeeper!"

"You insisted no wife of yours would work, Mr Carson," she reminded him. "So now you must take the punishment of this rule."

"I'm surprised you don't wish to be the one to find the replacement," he remarked. "After all, Mrs Patmore wasn't employed on a whim…"

Mrs Collins had been a selfish old biddy, out to pinch every penny she could from all and sundry. She was also a wily old thing, who couldn't get the short shrift as easily as the three troublemaking maids.

Inspiration, and grounds to dismiss the cook, eventually came to Elsie when she met with the salesman supplying soap flakes to Downton.

It was common practice to take a cut from local merchants. The house would pay the full amount for goods, but the suppliers would always offer a discount, which the cook, or the housekeeper, pocketed.

This was the usual arrangement at all big houses. It was even what she and Mrs Patmore still did today, albeit the funds they pocketed were shared amongst all the senior staff. But when searching for legitimate grounds to ask Mrs Collins to find another position in another house, it was quite acceptable.

"You can now admit that Mrs Patmore was given the job for her sincere lack of looks and puritan ways as her cooking skills."

"I'll admit no such thing, Mr Carson," she said, prim. It was completely true, however.

"Asking four staff to leave in quick succession saved Miss O'Brien, of course. We had to settle on the lesser evil."

"True… I should perhaps attend the interviews for the new butler when the time comes. I might make many a suggestion on how to behave with the housekeeper."

He grunted.

"Or not," she murmured suggestively. Bravely she bit into the globe of icecream, now that she'd given it several licks to soften it. She looked up, eyes shining with merriment and teasing. Satisfyingly, he was watching her mouth carefully.

She flicked out her tongue, searching for any smears of chocolate treat.

He reached out and his finger dabbed at her bottom lip, "Steady…"

The muscles between her legs clenched. He wasn't above teasing too, it seemed.

She should probably change the subject and get them back on steady ground, indeed! "Would you like to wander up to the castle again this afternoon?"

"No, I'm a little… Tired actually. I thought we could return to our room. Spend the rest of the afternoon… Resting."

Her breath caught. His way of speaking had not done anything to steady her, that was for certain. "I don't know how, Mr Carson, but you made that sound almost risque," she scolded softly.

"And if I did?" he asked immediately, proving he remembered their conversation just as well as she.

He caught her hand, and gently dragged her out of the trench she had created around her legs. Sightseeing could definitely wait. In two days time they'd be returning to Downton and she'd only see him in the evenings. She would miss him, and would be counting down the days until he too retired.

Her mind wandered back to their less than auspicious beginning as Charlie tucked her hand into the crock of his elbow and they began the short trek back to their accommodation.

In a few short days, they'd gone from a couple of old fools twisted up with anxiety in the bedroom, to a couple of old fools moving completely in harmony. She had every confidence they'd soon be synchronised when it came to public shows of affection as well.

"I'm sure it's quite possible for us to while away a few hours together…"

The End


End file.
